


Boots

by thehighwaywoman



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, I wrote this for me but y'all can read it if you want, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 17:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18833272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehighwaywoman/pseuds/thehighwaywoman
Summary: These boots were made for staying.





	Boots

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, here's the thing. I am trying to get back in the habit of writing. I picked a prompt table, and because I am notoriously indecisive I set up a randomizer to choose a fandom/prompt for me. 
> 
> What's the first thing it spit out? Bilbo Baggins. And BOOTS. Boots. For a frickin' _hobbit_.
> 
> I thought about choosing again. Then I thought: nope. Let's do this. It makes no sense and I am absolutely rolling with it. To anyone reading: bon voyage, caveat emptor!

The old boot has been hidden for half an age; Thorin finds it when he’s looking for the coat he was given in Lake-town. It’s fallen behind a chair, in a nook, and the boot is buried beneath. When he lifts it, the size of the thing makes him chuff out a breath, something that isn’t quite a laugh but isn’t not a laugh either. Boots meant for a Hobbit! He remembers these.

Of course Bilbo never wore the boots, either of them -- Thorin can hear his horrified expostulations now -- for goodness’ sake, Thorin, such a thing would never do! -- but they were carefully chosen for their size by one of Bard’s kin, a girl who fretted that the hobbit’s bare feet would be cold. Bless the child, she didn’t know better. With such good intentions so clear to see, Bilbo spared her the sharp side of his tongue. It took visible effort, the memory of which makes Thorin chuckle again, but he managed it.

He was ever good at hiding what he didn’t want others to see. 

He hid his heart from Thorin, for example, until there was a kiss. 

Who kissed who first? Thorin can no longer remember. It was a sweet kiss. Or -- it started sweet, and surprised, and a little shy -- for both of them. It’d been years for Thorin, and he suspects the same applied to Bilbo, and for a ridiculous moment he thought he’d forgotten how.

He hadn’t.

However that kiss started, it ended with armloads of this and that discarded hither and thither and here and yon, and not found before they’d been forgotten. Bare skin sliding smoothly, then slickly, curled toes and fingers kneading flesh and mouths open over shoulders, over collarbones and navels.

Who thought of boots, after that? And then there were nephews to chase, a kingdom to run. Treasure to distribute. Dragon ash to shovel onto compost heaps.

And yet he’s glad the boot was found, for it brought with it the gift of that memory.

Thorin glances over his shoulder at the naked Hobbit lying curled up in the center of the bed they found under a pile of old quilts that gleam with silver and gold stitching, and wonders where the second boot of the pair ended up. There’s no telling, but come to that he rather hopes he doesn’t find it straightaway. There is sometimes, he’s found, as much pleasure in the journey as the destination.

And in the meantime, well. Where better to go than back to bed?


End file.
